


edit that out

by chaospitals (hardscrabble)



Series: between two fourth lineys [2]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Banter, Light Dom/sub, M/M, podcast boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 14:31:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23047186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardscrabble/pseuds/chaospitals
Summary: They’re recording in, like, an hour. Or something. It’s on a schedule, somewhere, he's sure.
Relationships: Nic Dowd/Garnet Hathaway
Series: between two fourth lineys [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1775260
Comments: 12
Kudos: 75





	edit that out

**Author's Note:**

> happy between two blue lines episode day; have some fade-to-black banter fluff

“So. Pitt.”

“Pitt,” Garny echoes. He’s peering out the window. Not much to see. Rain and concrete and rain. A _lot_ of rain. Nic’s sprawled across the other bed in Garny’s room, because his room is boring, and rain makes him itchy. Like, not physically. Psychologically. Itchy in the psyche. That’s a thing, he’s pretty sure.

“First game in the city. With, like, the whole thing.” The thing. Nic could kick himself sometimes, really. An entire college degree and when push comes to shove he still can’t articulate the phrase _divisional rivalry_.

“Yeah, bud.” Garnet lets the curtain fall, which only makes his room brighter, actually, and asks, “Is the Crosby-Ovi thing for real?”

Nic shrugs as expressively as he can, which is very. “Who fuckin’ knows. I don’t know if _they_ know.”

“Weird shit. That whole…” Garny gestures vaguely. “Thing. If it’s just a media ploy.”

Nic folds his arms behind his head and sighs. “Half the league’s a media ploy. Audience is just here for the drama.”

Garny looks at him, eyebrows in a deep V, and intones, “No soap operas. Just hockey.”

“God, whatever fuckin’… suit came up with that. Like, ninety per cent of it’s drama. Battle of Alberta.” Nic rouses and says, “Hey, that’s a comparison. Flames-Oilers and Caps-Pens. You know this shit. How’s it feel?”

“Like we got a game tomorrow, bud. How's it supposed to feel?”

They’re not talking about the skid, their scattershot—and that’s generous—play, all the fucking penalties, falling apart _now_ of all times, because that’s not—like, that’s their job. Talking _about_ work is normal, Nic reasons. _Doing_ work, like, analyzing the fucking penalty kill for the umpteenth time, or drilling the fucking fundamentals—that’s for the rink. Fundamentals. Finishing the plays. Getting the job done. Playing the full sixty.

Nic feels like a parody of himself in front of media.

“You good?”

Nic blinks; he zoned a little there. “Thinking about the pod, man.” They’re recording in, like, an hour. Or something. It’s on a schedule, somewhere, he's sure.

“Oh, the _pod_,” says Garny, stretching out the word and putting a hand to his chin like that one French dude’s sculpture. “Politics?”

“Coronavirus,” Nic says. “Gotta stay topical.”

“Pretty sure politics are topical, bud, there was Super—”

“Whatever, Ivy League. Get over here.”

Garny draws his head back like an offended horse. “Manners, Judy.”

“_Whatever_, Ivy League. Like you even care.”

“I might care. You don’t know. I’m mysterious and shit.” But he’s on his feet and then at the foot of the bed and then at Nic’s side. He’s warm, a good weight. He always is. “Right? I’m fucking enigmatic.”

Nic snorts. “Bud, you’re, like, see-through.” He turns onto his side and settles one hand at the back of Garny’s head, digs his fingers into his hair. Garny lets his eyes close and kind of rocks his head, like he’s nestling into Nic’s hand. Nic snorts again, softer. “Like I said.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He’s just chill with it. Like _yeah, fucking whatever, you got me_. It’s absurd. It curls right into Nic’s belly and lower, how Garny’s just—into it, into _him_, casual like it’s just another way they play off each other. Which it is, and it isn’t, at the same time. It’s—not nothing, for Nic. Not something fragile, and he’s not sure about _precious_, either, but it’s—he keeps it safe. Keeps Garny, sort of. Keeps this thing somewhere secure.

“Two goals in two games, huh,” he says, because it’s boring to listen to rain.

“Did that.”

“Gonna keep it up?”

Garny’s eyes snap open. “What, you gonna _get_ it up?” His mouth goes sly, because he’s a fucking adolescent, but he slings one leg over Nic’s, too, because he’s not an idiot.

“Pregame ritual,” Nic says, dry. “Osh in that fucking interview. Keep it weird.”

“PR is _not_ gonna want that.”

“When did I say they’re invited?” Garny is _gazing_ at him, eyes darkening, but Nic’s gazing right back, so he doesn’t exactly have room to chirp. He disentangles his fingers from Garny’s hair, runs his hand over his jawline and down his throat, rests his fingers at the collar of his t-shirt. “Like, if you _want_ a fuckin’ party—”

“Nah,” says Garny. He’s not moving, but his heartbeat is picking up under the palm of Nic’s hand. “Nah, I’m good.”

“Coulda fooled me,” Nic replies, and lets his hand resume its journey down Garny’s torso. He’s got a semi, just from like—_lying_ there, and his hips shift forward when Nic cups it. But again, Nic would be a hypocrite to say he were in any better shape.

“Am I _not_ good? Got that point streak,” says Garny. His voice is admirably even, considering how Nic’s palming over his crotch. “Better than you.”

Nic scoffs. “Two’s barely a streak, bud. And I’m contributing.”

“Contributing _what_,” which earns Garny a hard flick against his thigh. He hisses through his teeth; Nic can _see _his pulse over by his collarbone; it’s—so easy, it’s so _simple_, it just works, so perfectly. Both pushing, needling each other, whatever, but Nic’s got the, whatever, the—upper hand? Not _power_, but—Garny takes it, anything Nic gives, and then gives it back exactly how Nic wants it, and—

He cocks his head, bringing himself back to the present, because the present is pretty nice: Garny isn’t quite still, but his eyes are half-closed, just waiting.

“Intangibles,” Nic says firmly. “Contributing intangibles. Those are important.” He grips Garny through his sweats then, and the line is right there, _talk about tangible_, but Nic isn’t going to say it because he is an adult, thanks.

“Mm-hmm.” Garny draws in a breath when Nic moves his hand, and he doesn’t let it out, eyes falling all the way shut and body arching. Which—yeah. It’s good. It’s such a small thing, Nic moving two of his fingers and Garny pulling in more air through his nostrils, his stupid infinitely broken nose, and it’s just for Nic, just—

“So if you’re so good,” says Nic. “And _if_ is doing a lot of work there, bud. Prove it.”

Garny eyes him, some kind of smile pulling at his mouth, but he's trying to hide it. “I am fucking _great,_" he says, ominous. "You’re gonna eat that. You fuckin’ wait.”

Nic eyes him right back, obviously. “Do I look like I wanna wait?”

“Lucky I don’t care about manners,” Garny mutters.

Nic’s lucky a lot of ways, but he’s not going to say that right now, he decides, as Garny pushes him flat, straddles his hips, kisses him hard and grinds on him when Nic digs his nails into his back, as Garny slides down Nic’s body. Nic is lucky in a _hell _of a lot of ways.

But he’ll save _saying_ it for postgame.

Not about to jinx it.

**Author's Note:**

> some of us transmute emotions about rivalry games into rpf, to cope, & also had a stroke upon hearing the live reveal of the signed judge judy photo
> 
> please feel free to talk very normally with me about the extremely regular sport of hockey on [tumblr](http://chaospitals.tumblr.com)


End file.
